You’ve probably seen me. Around town. In the park. I’m the decidedly non-designer pet with a designer family. I am not hypoallergenic. I am not cute and fluffy. If I’m honest, I don’t smell so great either (to a human nose) but no groomer wants to take me on.

Before Covid, my chances of adoption were slim to none and I knew sooner, rather than later, I was going to be taken away to That Room, never to return. I was stoic about it. I‘ve made some mistakes along the way and I have a lot of undesirable habits. I bark and can’t seem to stop. I jump up. I growl at other dogs. (Hey, on the mean streets you have to show them who’s boss.) I steal food. And despite it all. I am with a family. I just don’t know how long it will last.

When I first arrived at the shelter (and the second and third times as well, not gonna lie), the nice people there tried very hard to get me adopted. Every time a prospective family came in, I found myself sporting a jaunty bandana to enhance my attractiveness. I was to go to an experienced dog owner. I just needed a little training and attention. And you know they were right about that.

I had a loving home once. It was just me and the old man. We had a routine. Three walks and two squares a day. I just had to do all my business outside, sit and stay when told. We spent many companiable hours watching TV together on the lumpy sofa. He rewarded me lavishly for my obedience. I’m talking BACON! Then he got sick. The ambulance came and took him and I was brought to the shelter. I was a young dog, 10 months old, and I was good. He told me so. But the shelter was a scary place, a lot of trash-talking that the volunteers didn’t understand.

Whenever I did get a chance to take a walk with a family, I was so excited, I barked and jumped and pulled. Finally a family did take me home. That had a little boy who liked to play rough. One time he jumped on me when I was sleeping and I bit him. It was pure instinct. The parents beat me with a strap and then took me back to the shelter. I was glad to go.

That bite was the so called black mark that would discourage any future adoptions. I was just glad not to be beaten. I was resigned to my fate and lost all the good manners that old man had taught me. I didn’t need them anymore.

Then something strange began to happen. I noticed that more and more dogs were being adopted. Even the older ones. Even the one the volunteers called Flatulent Freddie. (I wondered how that was going.) The volunteers wore coverings on their faces, and there were less and less of them. They were always kind to me and I was getting a lot more walks. I didn’t understand what was going on but I picked up on their anxiety. And then this family came in. My bandana went on. I went for a walk with them and was mellower than usual. Partly because I had been on more walks, but mostly because I had given up hope. I licked them but not too much. I didn’t have the heart.  

“He’s kind of cute,” I heard the mother say, in a kind of wheedling voice. Look how he has one ear up and one ear down.” Then the next day, I went home with them. Their house was huge, and some of the floors were mighty slippery. The family were trying, I could see that. I could also see they knew absolutely nothing about dogs. They put me in a cage along with a lot of toys. I’m a little too old for toys but I tried to chew on them to make them squeak so they would be happy.

But I was lonely. The old man used to talk to me all the time. I wanted to sleep with the pack or at least one of the pack, as every dog does. I wanted to be free to roam the house, even though I would likely wind up snoozing at the feet of one of my humans. I wanted them to tell me what a good boy I was.

When the Mom took me for walks she was always talking on her phone. The kids took me out occasionally but they didn’t pick up after me which I found embarrassing. The family would being me to the park and then tie me up while the children played. I just didn’t feel part of the family, but I was really trying to be on my best behavior. I knew I wasn’t their first choice or even third choice for a dog. And I was beginning to understand the Pandemic and how stressed and worried everyone was.

I am not exaggerating when I say that a dog walker saved my life. No wait. I know what you’re thinking. The whole purpose of getting me was to keep the family company and give them stuff to do during these trying times. Like taking me for a walk. Now I am the first to admit I am not a good walker. I mean, I was, with the old man, but I forgot how. So the kids got tired of being pulled and the Mom got tired of me jumping on people. Just saying, but they could have consulted any number of dog training books or YouTube videos. I would have worked with them, I swear.

Really, the whole getting a dog thing was an impulse, as I heard the Mom saying to the dad. An impulse that should have been controlled. Now they were a proud family. They didn’t want to admit defeat. So instead they hired a dog walker. Twice a day, Sally came and took me on a long walk. She talked to me the whole time. She taught me the discipline I needed to walk the way humans prefer. She called me a good boy, and it made me one. But she didn’t stop there.

She started talking to the family, and showing them how to be with a dog. About treating me as a member of the family and not just another possession. She even recommended some books. I’m hopeful. And I wish, as they say, “when all this is over,” me and my raggedy compadres, the Covid dogs, are not returned to the shelter. This is my appeal to all those families who adopted a Covid dog:  Don’t give up on him or her. A dog should be a member of the family, not a plaything. Give us a chance, give us some time and attention and you will get so much more in return. You can’t put a price on our loyalty. We would die for you, I swear. We just need you to help us be the dog you want us to be. A good boy or girl who will love you until their last breath.